


Unconventional Existence

by Ry (ryanssance)



Series: Songfics [4]
Category: DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad and Happy, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanssance/pseuds/Ry
Summary: “They never spoke back. They were there, most certainly; standing, walking, looking around. They always had a look [about] them, like they were dazed, unfocused. Lost. The dead looked lost. Sometimes, it was hard to tell at a first glance—but upon closer inspection, they always had an odd, phantom aura emitting from them, like [rolling heat waves]. Except, instead of heat, or even cold, I felt nothing at all. It was how I differentiated them from the living when they didn’t have obvious gaping wounds leftover from whatever death befell them.” - octalove‘s Lunar Bridges on Tumblr
Relationships: Jason Todd/Reader
Series: Songfics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158794
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Unconventional Existence

**Author's Note:**

> Track ID: death bed (coffee for your head) by Powfu ft. beabadoobee

_Don't stay awake for too long  
Don't go to bed  
I'll make a cup of coffee for your head  
I'll get you up and going out of bed_

Gotham was riddled with ghosts, as do most places that have existed through centuries with pages upon pages in textbooks and stories. However, Gotham seemed to be littered with ghosts and damned souls left and right, more so than other cities you have come to visit over the years. Paired perfectly with the city’s crime rates and history of neglect and futile attempts to liven things up around here, you were starting to count the ghosts you encountered as part of the city’s population. No one else saw them, no one else ever saw them, except you. 

Clairvoyance, a gift and a curse wrapped in a haphazard bow.

Ever since you were little, you always saw extra people around you that were often unaccounted for by your parents. Your babbles about ghosts were often brushed off as a “heightened sense of imagination” and “creativity” that had you making bountiful friends until you learned to start describing them in more detail. It freaked your parents out as much as some of the more ghastly-looking of ghosts you encountered had done so to you. The ghosts never did you any harm, but understandably, anyone in their young minds would scream and run at the sight of a bleeding phantom hobbling on a very crooked leg with a sickening posture. 

Your parents had you evaluated, hell, they were about one panic attack away from calling in a priest to have you exorcised, but after a while, you just stopped telling them of your sightings, afraid they would leave you or have you thrown into an orphanage. 

As the years went by, you grew accustomed to the ghosts. Their presence kept you on edge until you left high school, it always took some adjusting to the sight of whatever damage they suffered before they ceased to physically exist in your… realm. By the time you were about finished with university, you kind of became nonchalant about the whole clairvoyance ordeal. The ability to see the dead became a part of your life, though they were still distinguishable from the living, you started to see them passively, as if they were just regular people on the streets, walking about looking like the world took too much from them. 

On the days you had more time to be present with your surrounding environment, you would take in the ghosts a bit more. You would consider the clothes they wore—sometimes the lack thereof—and their physical appearance. Scars, bruises, bullet holes, missing limbs or extremities and other noticeable fatalities. It became a little guessing game of yours to figure out what happened to them in their last moments. If you were alone, you might talk to them, but again, they never spoke back. Admittedly, not your best pastime and certainly not one you would share during stupid ice breakers or on first dates (or any dates to be honest). 

Now there were a handful of things on this planet that scared you. Loud noises, killer clowns, the idea of dying in Gotham, the uncertainty of what will happen to you after you die and how you will die, and this very fucking moment in the corridor of your apartment building. 

Your body was stiff, your fingers were fighting between wanting to keep the death grip on the keys in your hand and letting it fall onto the scuffed, linoleum panels below your feet. He had turned to ascend the creaky stairs when he paused at the sound of your audible confusion, frozen in your spot. Your eyes were wide like a deer caught in headlights, lips parted but no words came out. His vividly green eyes stared right at you, confused and a little worried. 

_I don't wanna fall asleep  
I don't wanna pass away  
I been thinking of our future 'cause I'll never see those days_

Jason took a regrettable snooze after his patrol last night and woke up covered in a cold sweat with the blanket bundled at the foot of his bed. The fluttering curtains had him jumping for the gun on his nightstand, barrel pointed at the innocent fabric as he tried to calm his mind. His heart pounded heavily against his chest, deafening him to the other sounds his body was trying to access in the midst of his panicked state. 

As his eyes adjusted to his environment, he put the safety back on his gun before tossing it to the other side of his bed. With a shaky hand, he reached for the lamp. The illumination frightened off the rest of the demons he was convinced were lurking in the dark crevices of his room, and he heaved for a heavy breath. The light flickered like always, bringing Jason to give it a quick backhand before the light stilled. 

There were plenty of things Jason despised and his seemingly never-ending night terrors were one of them. His latest mission had sent his mind into overdrive, the long stretch of unfamiliar road in his dream reoccurred every night. It wasn’t the walk that scared him, it was the taunting sounds of the familiar freak clown he hated with every fibre of his being. Once the maniacal laughter starts, the salty, metallic taste of blood would fill his senses. No matter where he looked, all he heard was the sound of growing laughter with each turn of his head before he would scream and flinch himself hard enough to wake. 

The sun was slowly rising, the buildings and the streets looked a lot less intimidating but most were still asleep. Especially on his block, Jason was usually the only one awake this early. The peaceful glow of dawn gave him a sense of ease, as much as his body would allow for. A tinge of hunger jabbed at him, prompting him to cook himself a full-fledged breakfast at 6:03 in the morning with his kitchen window wide-open so he was still able to see, hear and feel the presence of the outdoors. 

Cooking was one of the few things on Jason’s lists of hobbies that kept him occupied from his thoughts. His love for good food had him busying himself with full meals made from scratch ninety-percent of the time—the ten being if he was injured or days beyond exhausted to make more than a stack of sandwiches or indulge in chilli dogs. 

Jason’s countertop became an organized clutter of sliced vegetables and fruits, muddles herbs from his mini planter, shredded cheese and a bowl of perfectly chilled waffle batter. He scooped a cup of batter onto the hot waffle iron, the slight sizzle sent a shiver down his spine with excitement. It had been a while since he had waffles and the fresh fruits he had sliced up were mouth-watering. 

He was halfway through cooking his stack of waffles when he realized he was out of syrup. With a quick flick of the heating stovetop and the waffle iron, Jason turned off his appliances and threw on the closest hoodie. Jason wasn’t about to eat waffles without syrup, that is just an insane concept and he didn’t have the time to argue with his reasonable self at this point in time. 

A quick trip to the convenience store was enough to satisfy his hunt for a bottle of maple syrup. He was in and out of the establishment quicker than Kid Flash. Nothing and no one was about to slow him down from his morning feast of nostalgic carbs and processed sugars. 

Jason was less than a few steps into the foyer of his apartment building when he saw you walking out from the hallway where the mailboxes were. He remembered seeing you around the complex a few times, but the two of you never spoke. Jason tried to keep his head down most of his time out of his apartment, but on occasion, he would acknowledge any elders he would pass by. He had passed by you a few times as you were delivering weekly errands to old lady Beatrice on his floor, but you never gave him much of your attention other than a quick glance. He did notice something strange about you, however.

It was different today though, both of you seemed to be in a relatively good mood with a hint of morning grogginess. You were shuffling through some mail when you looked up at him. Without much of a second thought, you let out a tiny, “Good morning, Ghostie.” 

_Ghostie?_

Confused, Jason stopped on the second step of the stairs and looked down at you still shuffling through the pile of ads and letters in your hand. Utterly confused by the nickname, Jason shrugged it off and returned a quick, “Good morning.”

An audible sound of confusion left your lips as the pile of letters fell out of your hand. Jason paused yet again on the stairs, and his eyes fell yet again on his strange neighbour. You stood there, frozen to your spot as you stared up at him, but he noticed a glow. Jason held your eye contact until the two of you broke out of your confusing exchange. You bent down to collect your mail off the floor, and he bounded back up the stairs to get home to his waffles and his still-yet-to-be-made omelette. 

_I don't know why this has happened  
But I probably deserve it  
I tried to do my best  
But you know that I'm not perfect_

Oh you must have been going absolutely mad. 

The ghost— _man! Ugh, whatever_ —looked down at you, rather pensive from your gasp. The mail had spilled over your feet as the two of you held eye contact. A shiver had run down your spine as you felt entranced by the slight glow of his green eyes. The light above the staircase was rather dim, and his height blocked most of what the light could cover. The two of you blinked a few times before you realized the mess you had made. With your mail all collected haphazardly in your arms, you looked around the stairs and the foyer but the ghost was gone. 

_What the fuck?_

You didn’t see the ghost walk in, you both met in the foyer as you left the mailbox room. He was carrying a bottle of syrup which was rather strange, but you shrugged it off considering the phantom aura circling him. He seemed rather ghost-like to you, and there was no way you could have mistaken that. You’ve been seeing ghosts and humans for the better part of twenty-three years, that would not be a mistake you would make now. He didn’t have any visible scars that your eyes could make out during that small, but rather shocking interaction. 

_Maybe he_ —

Before you could even stop yourself, you were bounding up the stairs to the second floor where you’ve seen him frequent when you dropped off groceries for Beatrice. As you made it up to the landing, your eyes scanned the doors. Your feet carried you to the door with three brass numbers, _205_. 

You could hear someone was obviously awake behind the door and you could smell something sweet and bread-like cooking. You looked down the corridor to your left and gave both staircases a quick glance. 

Your free hand twitched at your side as you tried to decide on knocking on the door or crawling back to bed and hiding under the covers. The real test of your fight or flight instincts were starting to hurt your head, your heart pumped loudly, the conflict of your situation was really not something you wanted to contemplate in front of a stranger’s door. 

Worst-case scenario? The ghost and the interaction on the stairs all happened in your head and some random neighbour of yours is going to look at you weird for knocking on their door at seven-something in the morning for you to confirm or deny said interaction. 

Best-case scenario? The ghost was real? _Ugh!_

It’s true, you’ve gone mad. What would you even say if the ghost is real? Only one way to find out— _Wait! No!_

Your knuckles rapped against the wooden door, semi-quietly. You bounced on the balls of your feet a few times as you waited, eyes averted from the little peephole. Maybe they didn’t hear you, this is your chance to go back to your apartment and dwell over the situation alone… 

You were about to knock once more, a little louder just to push the line a little further when the door swung open. 

Hiding partially behind the door was the ghost you saw downstairs, the rolling aura around him even more noticeable up close and a step away from you. His eyes were still a vibrant green that bordered the glow you had caught earlier. He had a waffle hanging out of his mouth and a butter knife in the other. It was apparent that he was in the middle of his breakfast and well, alive. _Very much alive._

He took the waffle out of his mouth with the hand that was holding on to the butter knife, “Can I help you?” Jason inquired slowly, a little taken aback by your seemingly permanent state of shock and confusion. 

You jumped at the sound of his voice once again, like someone had smacked you in the back out of the blue, but it was enough to get your train of thoughts going, “How are you talking to me? You’re supposed to be dead.” 

Jason took a tiny step back, bewildered at your claim. His thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour, searching for a familiar face he might have forgotten when he came back to Gotham— _when he came back to life._ No, everyone was accounted for, he made sure of it. 

“I’m about as alive as you are at 7 AM,” Jason touted with a worried chuckle, but you were not convinced. 

You shook your head, “No, I can see it. You’re super pasty, and you have—” The break-in your sentence caused the both of you to furrow your brows, waiting for the cliffhanger to end. Jason took another cautious bite of his waffle as he let you think. “You have the phantom aura. You’re dead—or maybe you were dead, I don’t know! Is that even possible? There’s no way I could’ve mistaken the heat-wave looking mist that I see on half the population of Gotham, including you, right now.” 

“The what?” Jason inquired dubiously. “Look, um, again, it’s 7 in the morning. No one else in this building is awake this early, and I’ve already gotten shit from Beatrice for being ‘ too loud’ at this time of day...”

Jason looked down at you, waiting to see if you would choose to leave him alone yourself, but your unmoving figure and wide eyes hiding under your still-knitted brows was enough to convince him otherwise. He took a quick look over his shoulder and sighed, “Would you like to come in for waffles and omelettes?” 

Your eyes shifted down the corridor to where Beatrice resided in apartment 200 before returning to Jason and then down at the knife in his hands, “Are you going to kill me?” 

Jason upturned his hand dubiously, “ _With a butter knife?_ ” 

“With any knife, you might own, or maybe yeah, with that butter knife. I-I don’t know what ghosts are capable of,” you shrugged. 

An exasperated sigh escaped Jason as his free hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Either get in or go back to your apartment. It’s too early for me to debate with you in a corridor with paper-thin walls.” 

After debating internally about your choices, you took a shaky step forward, and Jason stepped back allowing you more room past his threshold. He closed the door behind you and left you there as he returned to his stove where he went to flip the omelette one last time. 

_I been praying for forgiveness  
You've been praying for my health  
When I leave this earth  
Hoping you'll find someone else_

Your eyes shifted around the apartment, taking everything in from the little love seat in his living room to the little bookshelf where the television would be in most homes. He lived rather minimally, but you assumed a ghost wouldn’t need much. 

“Feel free to take a seat,” Jason murmured and you looked over to him. He scooped the omelette out of the pan with his spatula, before setting the plate on the counter. You made your way over to the bar stools in front, and Jason gave you a passive quick glance. “So what is this about your assumption of me being dead and this aura thing?” 

He passed you a fork, to which you gently take. You were still amazed that you were having a full-blown interaction with this ghost, but the longer you stayed with his presence, the feeling of fear and shock was slowly starting to dissipate. 

_Have I surpassed clairvoyance now?_

You took a small bite of the omelette, testing it before you spoke, “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been able to see spirits and ghosts. Phantoms if you will, or whatnot.” 

Jason dug into his omelette with a knife and his fork, like a proper, well-mannered person, which made you pause as you noticed how you were just cutting into yours with the side of your fork. You felt strange, but nonetheless, you continued when Jason paused to look up from his plate of food. 

“Dead people have this aura around them, like an invisible but moving force,” you explained. Jason made some tea, offering you the first cup before pouring himself another. “You know like mirages, heatwaves and shit?” 

He nodded, prompting you to continue, “It’s like that. I see it around dead people. For most, I can tell they’re obviously dead aside from the aura, by their gaping wounds, weird stature and other bodily harm they might have received prior to death. Sometimes it’s the timely clothing they have on. London is filled with ghosts in Victorian clothes.” 

“I bet,” Jason nodded. He passed you a few waffles, perfectly golden brown and huge to say the very least. You glanced over at the waffle iron he had cooling on the side. “Help yourself to the fresh fruit and the new bottle of syrup.” 

You did just that, scooping up some fruit to decorate your stack of waffles with before drizzling some maple syrup over it, “I’ve seen around a few times, but you never really spared me much of a glance.” 

Jason chuckled, “I could say the same for you.” 

“Well you looked dead, so I didn’t want to bother you,” you shrugged, taking your first bite of the waffle. “This is so good, was your batter from scratch?” 

He nodded, “Yeah, and I used real vanilla bean instead of vanilla extract.” 

“Holy shit,” you murmured, savouring every bite you took. 

The two of you ate quietly after that, too indulgent of the little feast he had cooked up himself. You considered the amount and the size of food he made to be a bit weird for a ghost, but from the way he ate, he seemed like a bottomless pit. 

“Beatrice spoke about you once, that time you passed us in the hallway on your way out. After you left, Beatrice made a comment about how you’re a nice looking guy and you seemed nice enough, but you made a lot of ruckus at odd hours,” you shared, sipping at your tea as you watched him prepare another stack of waffles on his plate. He offered you one, but you politely declined. “I just assumed she meant your ghostly activities.” 

You laughed at the way his face scrunched up, “What do ghostly activities even consist of?” 

The shrug you gave in response was no help, “I don’t know, you tell me!” 

You expected a goofy answer or some light into what ghosts really did besides walk around and sit in unoccupied seats with a sullen gaze, but Jason only mirrored your shrug, “Beats me, I’m no ghost. You’re literally eating a breakfast I cooked, with me in my apartment.” 

Jason went back to devouring his plate of food, leaving you to push your fork around the little crumbs on your own tableware, “But you did... die?” 

The uncertainty in your voice was enough to convey every ounce of confusion you’ve had since the lobby incident, all things considered with the information you had given him over breakfast. Jason silently collected your plate with his own, stacking it into the sink, along with all the other dirtied kitchenware and empty batter bowl. 

“I can help with the dishes,” you offered, getting up from your seat, but Jason just shook his head. Jason started on the dishes, going through them all rather thoroughly while you sat with the warm mug between your hands. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to leave, maybe he was waiting for you to finish your tea before kicking you out, so you tried to take bigger sips of the scorching liquid. 

The unspoken silence was starting to feel uncomfortable as it dawned on you that you had an entire meal with a stranger from your complex without much of a motive other than to purely figure out why you two were able to communicate in the first place. Jason was preoccupied behind the counter, washing the dishes. He seemed deep in thought as he gawked at the rushing tap water. 

Beatrice wasn’t wrong, he was a handsome man. He was tall and built, broad shoulders with what you could only assume were big biceps under the hoodie. His eyes were still relatively green, but were less bright and glowy than they were under dim lighting. You watched him dry his hands on a kitchen towel after stacking his dishes on the drying rack. He took a moment before choosing to sit down next to you for the first time. 

You assumed his new arrangement was an invitation to stay, so you turned to him slightly with a small smile, “I’m [Y/N], by the way.” 

He nodded, sparing you a quick look himself, “Jason.” 

The two of you returned to your silence, both quietly enjoying your cups of tea and the little breeze that came in from his kitchen window. The streets were starting to ignite with noises as people started leaving for work and school. 

“I did die,” Jason uttered out of the blue, his eyes watching the drying dishes in front of him. 

A droplet of water fell into the sink. 

You bobbed your head in response, lips in a tight line as you decided to give him some space for thought. It sounded like he had more to say, but you didn’t feel right to push him yet. 

He fiddled with his fingers. After a brief pause, he let out a sigh, the fingers stopped twiddling, “But I came back.” 

_I wish it could be me  
But I won't make it off this bed  
I hope I go to heaven  
So I see you once again_

Looking over at Jason, you gauged his emotions. He was ruminative, probably sorting around memories of his resurrection. The thought of being brought back to life, however it happened, seemed to bounce on a tightrope of being painful and unusual. Stories have been shared of what it was like to even flatline on the operating table or in the back of an ambulance if they were lucky. The unfamiliar darkness of being alone and confused. You’ve heard of the shocking jolt that had people gasping for their dear life as they came back, oxygen returning to inflate their once-calmed lungs or the rush of adrenaline that sent their heart rates running too fast for their body to handle after a pause. 

One glimpse at Jason and his aura and you knew it wasn’t good, it never was. Dying or nearing the brink of death, it happened to you once. You were trapped under the ice of a frozen pond, the freezing water and your own shock made it hard to get to the opening you had fallen through. 

You shook your head, before giving Jason your best comforting smile, “If you ever wish to share, I’d give you any time of the day.” 

Jason looked up, an eyebrow quirked at the offer. It wasn’t an unnecessary push for more than what he was willing to offer to a neighbour he has barely gotten to know, but it also wasn’t a pitying gesture of sympathy. It was a genuine smile with a hint of curiosity behind the eyes. One that seemed trusting of him, and one that he could find himself wanting to trust himself, but he hesitated. 

“Maybe another time,” Jason tittered. “It’s not really first date material.” 

Your face lights up with a giggle at his half-hearted joke, “Yeah, talking about how I can see and talk to ghosts doesn’t usually score me a second date either.” 

The kettle started to whistle, prompting Jason to reach over the counter to grab it off the stand. He refilled your mugs, and set it back. 

“So if you can talk to ghosts, why was it such a surprise I responded?” Jason inquired, green eyes peering over the edge of his cup as he took a cautious sip. 

“I talk in passing like they’re regular people—quiet company if you will—but they’ve never spoken back before,” you copied his movements. “First encounters with the unfamiliar tend to be appalling.” 

Having felt that you’ve taken up plenty of his time, you finished the last sip of your tea. You went over to the sink and quickly washed your own mug before Jason could even protest. Though a little out of character for a new guest to do their own dishes, you also felt responsible since you kind of barged in on him during his supposedly quiet breakfast. 

“I should probably get going,” you announced as you dried your hands on your sweatpants. “Thank you for the lovely breakfast though, I’m sorry I intruded on your quiet morning.” 

Jason got up abruptly, shaking his head, “No it’s quite alright. A strange morning, but I haven’t had breakfast with some form of company in a while.” 

_It was kind of nice_ , he thought to himself.

He opened the door for you, giving you a chance to shuffle into your shoes before you turned to leave, “Thank you, again. If you ever have some time for ghost stories, I’m in 303.”

Jason’s only response was a rather awkward smile and nod, so you bid him a quick wave and bounced out of his apartment before you could blush at your own discomfort for being so straightforward. Back into the safety of your apartment, you shut the door quickly, stripped out of your clothes and dove straight into your bed to muffle your groans of embarrassment. 

_My life was kinda short  
But I got so many blessings  
Happy you were mine  
It sucks that it's all ending_

Jason watched you bound up the stairs with quick creaks, closing the door after you were out of sight. He let out a shaky breath as he went to retrieve his mug from the counter. He eyeballed your now-clean mug on his dish rack. Everything about his entire morning had been completely odd and it all started because you called out to him and he responded. Part of him didn’t even want to offer you residency at his kitchen counter for breakfast because he wasn’t the type to discuss anything related to his death often, and with a stranger as a matter of fact. 

_Also, who the fuck cleans their own mug as a guest?_

Everything about you had been bizarre, to say the least, but it gave him some insight into that strange glow he had noticed around you. It wasn’t anything drastic, he assumed his eyes were playing tricks on him the first time, but it was more obvious with you across from him during breakfast. 

“Goddammit,” Jason murmured as he brushed a hand over his face. He was tired, the symptoms of lack of sleep were starting to feel more prominent on his heavy eyes, but he didn’t want to risk taking another long sleep, so he opted to sit right by the open window in his living room so he could sleep rather uncomfortably as a way to stay out of deep sleep. 

Over the next week and a half, Jason avoided the stairs. He already avoided the crumby elevator due to his claustrophobia—something that became apparent after he was resurrected—leaving him with the fire escape as his only means to and from his apartment. It would have been more convenient to use if the ladder to the ground wasn’t rusted shut. After going out of his way to scale the fire escape for a week straight, Jason decided to finally use the apartment stairs again. 

Was he avoiding you? Perhaps, but he wasn’t really sure if he wanted to see you again for a while, not after all the conflicting information and strange encounters he had to deal with in a small span of time. Jason was equally as intrigued as he was perplexed by your personality or as much as he could garner from that first interaction. 

It was around eight in the evening when Jason finally decided he would knock on your door. The lights were bright in the corridor of his floor, but the moment he stepped past the threshold of his door, the lights dimmed and flickered oh so slightly. Most people might not have noticed it, but Jason’s been living with this since the pit and quite frankly it unhinges him. With a roll of the eyes, Jason locked the door to his apartment before shuffling over to the stairs leading up to your floor. 

He stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the landing that awaited him. Part of him wanted to turn back and get into bed with a copy of his favourite play, but the other part of him wanted to hear more about the ghost stories you had promised. There was something about that slight, literal glow about you that made him feel comfortable around you and the honesty of the so-called aura you saw around him, though it didn’t make all that much sense, seemed genuine. 

The light above him flickered a little more, _fuck it_. 

Jason stalked up the stairs and headed straight for 303. The floor plans were all the same, and there weren’t a whole lot of apartments in this building. He brought his knuckles up to the door, pausing for a quick moment as he evaluated his plan once more. With a small exhale, Jason knocked on your door. There was a moment of silence, leaving him feeling hesitant. Maybe you weren’t home. Jason gnawed at his lower lip before knocking on the door once more. Tiny footsteps squeaked behind the door before the latch was undone and the door opened. 

You smiled at the sight of him, “Oh hey, _Ghostie_.”

Jason blinked at you, a hot second passed as he saw the little glow emanating from the fingers you had curled around the edge of the door, “Hey, um… I know it’s kind of late but I was hoping to take you up on your offer of ghost stories?” 

Your eyes flickered for a moment, lost in thought as he had before you smiled at a little epiphany, “Did you eat dinner yet?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Jason nodded, seeming skeptical of his own answer, leaving you to raise an eyebrow at him. “Like I could eat if you’re offering food…?” 

A smile stretched across your face as you let out a little cackle of laughter, “Alright, well I’m not making much tonight. Wasn’t expecting any guests, so I hope you like chicken pesto pasta and butternut squash soup.” 

You opened the door fully, allowing Jason to enter your apartment. He looked around as he took his shoes off, pushing them away from the entry as you closed the door behind him. Your apartment was a little more decorated than his and the layout was slightly different from his own. 

“Feel free to take a seat,” you gestured, returning into the kitchen to lower the heat on your boiling pot of water. “Would you like anything to drink?” 

Jason’s gaze averted from the plants he saw by your window sill, “Water is fine, thank you.” 

The two of you held small talk while you cooked as a way for Jason to avoid going to sit on your couch. The television of yours was on, and Jason hated walking past televisions because it often sent them buzzing like a stupid disconnected channel with static. 

You asked him about his week and where he’s been having not seen him around since the breakfast. He made up some story about how he got busy and he was trying to avoid Beatrice. By the time you two got caught up, dinner was ready.

“Sorry I don’t have a dining table,” you apologized, shuffling over to the coffee table in front of your couch. You placed the bowls of soup down, before rushing back to grab the pasta. Jason stood reluctant to move any closer to your living room in fear of the gushing static that would flood your screen. The smell of pesto wafted past him as you rushed over to your couch with the plates, reminding Jason that he would have to eventually get over his fear of the TV otherwise, he’d look a fool for standing in the middle of your apartment. 

With a tiny gulp, Jason slowly made his way over to the empty seat you left him, visibly cringing as he neared the small screen. When he finally took his seat, he stared at the television before him, confused as to why it didn’t go haywire. Jason looked over at you, eyes firm on him as if you were waiting for him. He looked down and noticed the utensil set you were offering him. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, freeing your hand finally. He felt your stare linger for another second or two before you shrugged, happily yelling “dig in” before you started eating. 

Jason found himself lost in the soup, the texture and flavour was something he hadn’t had in a butternut squash soup in years. You watched him inhale the soup, almost as if he didn’t feel the pain of burning liquid against his poor taste buds.

“This is really good,” Jason praised in between spoonfuls of the soup. “Care to share the recipe?”

You shook your head, “Sorry Ghostie, it’s a family secret.” 

He pouted but nonetheless, savoured every last drop before digging into his portion of the pasta. The two of you ate in relative silence save for the slurps and the occasional question regarding ghosts you’ve seen and stories you cared to share. Jason thoroughly enjoyed the meal and the light conversation the two of you carried, but he still had one burning question he teetered on asking. 

He offered to help with the dishes, but you waved him off, trying to gently nudge him out of your kitchen. You offered dessert, which he gladly took up and the two of you took the warm brownies and ice cream to the fire escape. He watched carefully as he passed the TV yet again, but there was no change or static as he passed it. That’s when he noticed none of the lights flickered in your apartment either. 

You watched the city twinkle as you quietly ate your brownie, Jason doing the same until you broke the silence, “I suppose there’s something on your mind?” 

It was like you could read him and from the gentle but knowing expression on your face, you could. Pensive, he took another bite of his dessert, “You glow, you know that?” 

Pausing, you looked over at where he was seated, back against the cold bars of the fire escape, “Is that a compliment?” 

“I mean, yes?” Jason furrowed his eyebrows. “But I mean like you literally glow, lightly, but I’ve noticed it for a while, and I didn’t think much of it until you left. All that talk about some mystic aura had me thinking if maybe you died too, but I just perceived the aura differently.” 

Jason watched you stiffen at his comment about dying, you remained quiet after that, the bowl of dessert sat idly in your hand as your eyes flickered from side to side oh-so-slightly like you were watching something.

You let out a huff, “I was four when I fell through the ice. I was mucking about some frozen pond. We thought it was safe, it was well below freezing the few days leading up to it, but I managed to fall through.” 

Jason watched you earnestly as you recalled the story, the way you told it seemed as though you rarely—if ever—shared the story. Something he found himself resonating with but also wanting to reach over and tell you that it was okay. 

“My parents were still on the bank, so it took them a while to get to me safely,” you continued. “But I was tiny and scared. I remember being so utterly cold and in shock, it seemed dark but I saw the ice, I saw the light from above the ice coming through but I couldn’t swim and I couldn’t see the opening… Anyways, by the time they got to me, I was unconscious.” 

You looked over at Jason. He had abandoned the desert, letting the bowl balance between his thighs. His eyes scanned the city skyline, “I remember what it’s like to be cold and afraid in the dark…” 

A sympathetic smile flashed accordingly before you shook your head, but a little thought prodded at his curiosity.

“Did you see anything or anyone?” Jason whispered, almost as he was afraid to hear that you did but he didn’t. He wasn’t one to be religious but what if there was duality after death that he wasn’t a part of? Or worse, what if he did belong to the pits?

His eyes watched attentively for any signs of a fake answer, but your pensive thoughts assured him otherwise. The final answer you gave him, the shake of your head, left him feeling only semi-satisfied but he couldn’t ask for more. 

“So I glow and you have the mist,” you chuckled, prompting Jason to return from his thoughts. 

“I guess we’re both a supernatural phenomenon,” Jason shrugged before erupting in his own fit of chuckles. “Does that make you a _ghostie_ as well?”

You let out a gasp, “I’m not dead!”

“Me neither,” Jason retorted before getting nudged by your foot. The two of you got caught up, bickering about the nickname and living status for a while before a police cruiser zipped past, catching both of your attention. 

Part of him wanted to go, but he was genuinely having a good time with you on the fire escape with your now-melted ice cream and cold brownies. He watched the Bat-Signal light up, deciding he would leave if it didn’t turn off in a few minutes. You finished up your dessert silently, watching Jason from your own spot before giving a quick turn to find what he was so heavily invested in. 

The Bat-Signal turned off and Jason’s shoulders sagged with a tiny sigh, “You worried about Batman?” 

Jason snickered, “Not as worried as I am about your hypocrisy on being a ghost.” 

The teasing continued.

_I'm happy that you're here with me  
I'm sorry if I tear up  
When me and you were younger  
You would always make me cheer up_

Months went by and the nicknames, _Ghostie_ and _Sunshine_ were thrown around like regular names, interchangeable with _Jaybird_ and _Pretty_ _Bird_. Over that period of time, Jason let himself tell you parts of his story—the ones he could remember or felt were worth sharing, and with each story, you would take it in like a child being read to at bed time. Willing to listen and be there, providing him all the love and affection you could muster. 

The positive reinforcement of achingly slow, passionate kisses encouraged him to allow for his vulnerability to exist with less worry and stress. He would even point to the places where the old scars used to be—should have been—and would reminisce on the meanings and stories behind each of them. Those were the places you would hover over with a longer kiss than the ones that you were able to see, and you did so because you could tell how much those now invisible scars meant to him. 

Jason came around to telling you about the TV static and flickering lights, something he eventually forgot about, himself, as he spent more time with you. He came to realize that you were the reason they never faltered and without saying, he felt as if your glow affected that. Like it counteracted against the little destruction his reincarnation tailed along.

Somewhere along the line, you noticed how little he would check the mirror, something you found completely opposite of yourself. When the two of you would brush your teeth together, he chose to stand with his back towards the mirror or right outside of the bathroom door. When you finally asked, he explained to the best of his ability, what he saw when he looked at his own reflection. It was rather hard, considering he only knew confidently that it— _he_ —looked wrong. It was the type of thing that didn’t sit right and he could only mention without further detail because it left him at a loss for words. Instead, you nodded and held his hand gently, taking it upon yourself to help him with his hair or to fix him up when need be so he wouldn’t have to look in the mirror when he didn’t want to. 

For you, being with Jason meant you finally had someone to ramble about ghosts with. He noticed how often you got lost, staring off into the distance like you were stuck on a train of heavy thoughts but he knew it meant you were watching a ghost move about. Sometimes you would smile at something as you passed by it, or you’d even utter a “hello” or “excuse me” when you walked into a room. Admittedly, it unhinged him a little when you would do it in more quiet places, like the laundry room of your complex or behind him at the diner, like someone was actually there when in fact, it was just the two of you. Eventually, he learned to trust you when you promised they wouldn’t or couldn’t hurt anyone and started to ask you to describe them instead. Though some ghosts elicited gory details, it was almost soothing to hear you describe something he wasn’t able to see for himself. 

Despite your lively glow and his unconventional mist, you were the one who ran cold while he ran hot. Your feet were often frozen despite your socks, your blood circulation not at its prime, whereas Jason felt like a furnace in comparison. The exception being when he was asleep. The body’s natural temperature drops during sleep as a way to thermoregulate but Jason’s body starts to feel icy, and you never said it out loud, but it was almost as if he was dead. It seemed as though your body awake, mirrored that of your icy fall, and his body asleep, mirrored that of his quiet rest in the coffin. 

There was some poetic nuance in the way you two connected and Jason slowly came to realize that he had some sort of peaceful residency with you amongst all the chaos he had in his other life, the night one. You caught on rather quickly to his atypical occupation as a… vigilante. An anti-hero. He was hesitant to tell you at first, but your quick wits and intuitive personality beat him to the reveal, and it was almost comedic how smug you were about finding out his secret. There was still an internal battle amongst his own ideologies about people and his own trust, but despite the calm presence and all-knowing that you had that he would otherwise be on-guard about, his tough-guy facade was not so easily maintainable around you. 

Over time, he grew comfortable with that. With you. You sure liked to keep him on his toes with new stories or goofy antics, and he felt he needed that, or as you would say, he deserved it. It was always something you believed in, and it upset you when he didn’t see it behind the self-deprecating vigilante mindset and the emotional baggage he tried to suppress. As he got better with his own mental health and his emotions, Jason opened up to the love you had waiting for him and there was honestly something so endearing about your presence that he craved. 

He was at peace, _for the most part._

_Cuddle in your sheets  
Sang me sound asleep  
And sneak out through your kitchen at exactly 1:03_

There was an unspoken agreement that Jason would stay over at your apartment as time went on. Neither of you ever questioned why, but you assumed Jason felt more comfortable at your place and the change in scenery helped him with his bouts of insomnia and night terrors. Plus you had the TV, which helped plenty during movie nights ~~and other rowdy activities~~.

Despite the arrangement, Jason suffered an injury to his knee during his latest mission with his family. Alfred had cautioned him about further straining his injury by “acting a fool”, so he left you in charge of making sure Jason was off his knee as much as possible. Jason made a squabble about wanting to stay at your apartment instead, but your bathtub would prove a hassle to get in and out of in comparison to his walk-in shower. 

The two of you spent the evening after your nightly routine cuddled under his thin blanket, enjoying the pillow talk as you called in an early night. The quiet chatter and soothing movements of your fingers through his hair and circling parts of his back were enough to lull him to sleep. 

It was a little after midnight, or so you assumed when you were startled awake by the sound of a yelp and the sheets pulling off of you. Your eyes picked out Jason sitting upright, sheets bunched around his hips, chest heaving. You sat up with caution as you placed a gentle hand against his back, “Jay, I’m right here.” 

His breathing started to slow as he gained more control over his consciousness. The muscles in his back started to ease as you slowly circled your palm against his now flushing skin. What was once cold and clammy now started to heat up under your touch. 

You cautiously got up from your spot next to him, “I’m going to grab you some water, okay?”

Jason finally moved, he turned his head at the sound of your voice, finally registering your movement from the bed. He gave you a little nod, “Light? Please?” 

His voice was timid and raspy, almost inaudible but you gave him a nod, hands fumbling for the lamp switch next to you. The slight glow from his eyes muted against the ambient tone of the light filling the room. He looked so utterly tired and distraught, you just wanted to pull him into a hug but you knew what he needed first. 

“I’ll be right back,” you reassured, dipping out of the bedroom. The sound of a quiet sob descended down the hall from the bedroom as you poured him a big cup of water from the idle kettle. 

When you entered the room, Jason was seated at the edge of the bed with another figure. Jason looked up at the sound of your footsteps tiptoeing in from the hall. You slowly approached him, handing him the cup of water which he took gratefully. As he took a sip of water, he watched your figure from behind the rim of the glass, you were fixated on something next to him. 

Snapping from your trance, you realized how triggering your gawking at the new visitor might be to Jason, so you gave him your best smile as you got down to his level in a little squat. 

He gave you a worried look of questioning as he turned to his side, suddenly hyperaware that there was someone else in the room sitting next to him. 

“There is a man here,” you introduced slowly, placing a hand on Jason’s knee. 

His heart began to race yet again, the thumping growing louder in his ears as he frantically searched for some sign that the horrid man of his hauntings was in the room. Your hand reached for his shaking glass, setting it down on the nightstand before you took his hands in your own. You called out to him, trying to bring his attention away from his on-coming anxiety attack. 

“Jason, baby, focus on me,” you instructed, watching his eyes shift in terror, “It’s okay, breathe with me?”

Jason watched your guiding hand as the two of you took some deep breaths together. The circling thumb against the back of his hand slowly brought him back from his overwhelming thoughts. He kept up with you for another minute before he closed his eyes, stilling himself in his spot. You watched him quietly as his shoulders started to sag again, elbows relaxing next. 

“Would describing him help?” You asked. “He’s not scary. There are no wounds.” 

Jason kept his eyes closed, a quick clench before he convinced himself to trust you—as he always has. You took his tiny nod as an approval, “Okay, well he’s kind of built, not like you though. A little smaller.”

His eyes remained closed as you continued, “He has red hair under his cap. It’s kind of worn out… He has a soft smile, it’s kind of comforting. He’s in a simple t-shirt, there’s a flannel around his waist.”

You looked back up at Jason, his eyes were now open. He blinked, confused, “Anything else?” 

“Well,” your eyes scanned the figure, seeing past the thick mist around him. “He looks like someone who’s been through a lot, but he also looks like someone who would crack a really bad dad joke? Kind of like you.” 

The phantom raised an arm towards Jason. A tattoo was visible for a brief moment before he draped his arm over Jason’s shoulders, “He has a snake tattoo on his left arm? It looked green, but it’s hidden now, I can’t tell. Though he seems to like you.” 

Jason’s eyes widened, suddenly feeling a shiver down his spine. He carefully turned his neck to the side where the phantom sat, now smiling a little more. His mouth moved, shaping into words before he went back to smiling. 

“Looks like he said something,” you shrugged. 

Jason stood up abruptly, but the ghost remained stagnant as if the missing support from Jason left him unfazed. You and Jason both stared on, waiting. The phantom finally put his arm down, focus still absent but the smile didn’t falter. 

Jason backed up a little, causing you to move out of the way to give him space. You looked between Jason and the phantom who turned his head ever so slightly to look up at your boyfriend. 

His mouth moved yet again, for a longer duration this time. It was hard to make out what he was saying, but you caught onto a familiar nickname. 

“He called you—”

Jason’s hand reached for yours as he took another step back. Eyes wide, you were ready to interject his discomfort, when he uttered a name. A name you have only heard from his wild stories of a solid friendship built on years of support, laughs, missions and other bizarre antics.

_Don't go to bed  
I'll make a cup of coffee for your head  
I'll get you up and going out of bed_ **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far one of my longer "one-shots" but I felt so much passion writing this. I hope you loved it as much as I did.


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